


Been Looking At You Forever

by torakowalski



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Accidental Relationship, Fuckbuddies, M/M, Minor Jane Foster/Thor, Post Avengers (Movie), tipsy sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-05
Updated: 2013-04-05
Packaged: 2017-12-07 14:22:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/749512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torakowalski/pseuds/torakowalski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint and Phil are friends. Friends who have sex. That’s all there is to it. Honestly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Been Looking At You Forever

**Author's Note:**

> Once upon a time, Sirona sent me a whole bunch of porny gifs and I decided to write a fic based around them. Then, predictably, Clint developed feelings and this happened.
> 
> With huge thanks to harborshore for the beta and comma-wrangling.
> 
> Content note: there's one (totally skippable) scene of tipsy, but consensual, sex about a third of the way in.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Phil gasps in Clint’s ear. His fingernails are biting hard into Clint’s hips, holding him firmly, giving him no room to do anything more than jerk forward into the mattress while Phil fucks down into him.

Clint reaches out, grabs the side of the bed and drags them around so they’re on their sides, Phil’s sweaty chest pressed to Clint’s sweaty back.

It kind of hurts, Clint hasn’t been fucked in so long, but it’s amazing, the sheets tangled around their legs, both of them writhing and pushing and pressing together, Phil swearing in his ear.

“Coulson, fuck,” Clint grunts, turning his head and pressing his face into Phil’s clean-smelling sheets, biting down and tasting washing powder, managing to muffle his loudest groans.

Phil’s arm slides around him, forcing him up and back until he’s half-sprawled backwards across Phil’s chest, Phil’s cock still snug inside him.

“Okay?” Phil asks, low and clearly knowing he’s going to get a yes.

“Fucking fan-” Phil rolls his hips up, fucking Clint deep and Clint loses his voice on a silent moan. “-tastic.”

“Here, come here,” Phil tells him, wrapping a hand around Clint’s inner thigh, spreading Clint’s legs wider, like he’s showing him off to an invisible audience.

Fuck. Clint shouldn’t have thought that; he already hurts from how hard he is.

Clint twists, bracing his feet on the bed and clawing mindlessly at Phil’s arm, still thrown across his chest. There aren’t a lot of people Clint would let pin him like this, but fuck it feels good, like he might explode and like that might be the best feeling ever.

Phil turns his head, warm breath across the side of Clint’s face before he licks a wet stripe down Clint’s neck.

Clint shivers, tipping his head back, yelling out loud when Phil cranes his head further forward and bites, teeth sinking into the fleshy place where Clint’s neck meets his shoulder. 

“Ow, shit, ow,” Clint complains, half-way between a laugh and a groan. “Do that again.”

“Like that?” Phil asks. He bites higher this time, definitely above Clint’s collar. He’s more careful of the thinner skin there, but the jolt that goes through Clint is even sharper.

Clint’s hips jerk without his permission, looking for friction that isn’t there, and almost pulling Phil all the way out of his ass. 

Phil growls and tugs him back down. “Hold still, Barton, for fuck’s – ”

“You really want me to do that, sir?” Clint asks, rolling his hips around in a circle, biting his lip hard at the drag and stretch of his skin, the solid shape of Phil’s cock all the way inside.

Fuck, when Phil brought him home tonight, he’d expected a quick fuck over the nearest flat surface and maybe a beer after, if he was lucky. He hadn’t ever thought they’d go this long or this good.

The hand that Phil was holding flat to Clint’s chest suddenly darts sideways and pinches Clint’s nipple, hard. Clint curses and jerks forward, clenching down hard around Phil, so he doesn’t lose him again.

It’s Phil who swears this time, but he only has himself to blame. Clint’s starting to lose his breath, everything hot and heading toward too sensitive. If Phil’s got plans for them to come at vaguely the same time, it’s going to have to be soon.

Phil pinches Clint’s left nipple again, rolling it between his fingers, until Clint can’t stand it anymore and grabs Phil’s hand, dragging it down over his chest and belly and laying it flat over his cock.

“Is that a hint?” Phil asks, sounding like he’s laughing. Clint doesn’t care, Phil can laugh; his palm is rough and wide and, even without any pressure, it feels great on Clint’s cock.

“If I say I’m too well brought up to give hints, will you laugh at me?” Clint asks, forcing his way to the end of the sentence. It gets hard to talk about halfway through, when Phil wraps his fist around Clint’s cock and starts to jerk it. 

Phil’s hand feels amazing; he really knows what he’s doing. He’s good at this and he isn’t going easy on Clint, which is fine by Clint, who never knows what to do when people try to be gentle with him.

“Fuck,” Clint says sincerely, heat and twisting desperation starting to shoot up his legs, curl in his belly. Phil’s thumb finds the head of his cock, flicking lightly with his nail. It hurts and it’s great and, “Shit, I’m going to come.”

“Yes,” Phil says, and whether that’s permission or just agreement, Clint doesn’t know, but he can’t stop now, shaking and choking out noises he can’t hold back, coming all over Phil’s fist and his own cock.

He’s too far gone to do much but flop afterwards, while Phil huffs at him and rolls him over, hands going back to his hips and dragging him up onto his knees.

“Okay, okay, go for it,” Clint mumbles into his folded arms. 

Phil bites the back of Clint’s neck and does, fucking him so that hard Clint’s knees slide on the sheets. Clint slams his hands up, bracing them on the wall and making himself stable and solid so Phil can finish off inside him.

The noises Phil makes when he comes are pretty spectacular. Clint peels one hand off the wall and reaches back to pat Phil on the shoulder, reassuring-like, before slowly lowering them both down onto the bed in a mostly controlled collapse.

Phil rolls off him after a couple of minutes, still panting. Clint knows how he feels. His muscles are throbbing in the good, overused way of an excellent fuck. 

Slowly, he pushes himself up and sits back against the headboard. Phil tips his head back and looks up at him, smiling crookedly.

Clint snickers and shakes his head, scrubbing a hand over his face. “So that was,” he tries, then gives up. What the fuck __was__ that?

“It was,” Phil agrees seriously, ruining it with the way his eyes are twinkling. 

Clint kicks him in the shoulder. He feels kind of drunk on sex. Is that possible? “I never thought you’d be this – ” He waves a hand. He maybe shouldn’t be admitting that he’s ever thought about what Phil __would__ be like in bed.

“This what?” Phil asks. He’s still flushed all over and he hasn’t gotten rid of the condom yet, but he seems totally comfortable with that and with being naked in front of Clint. Clint likes that. “Barton, did you think I’d be bad in bed?”

“No,” Clint laughs. “I just thought you’d be more, I don’t know.” He shrugs. He’s shit at talking; he always has been. He always thought Phil would be bossy in bed, which he was, he just hadn’t expected him to be so physical about it, or for that to be so _hot_.

Phil pushes himself up onto elbows and mock-glares at him. “I can’t believe you thought I’d be bad at sex.”

Clint pokes him with his toes again. Apparently post-coital Phil likes to tease; it’s weird seeing him like this. Weird in a good way, Clint thinks, but still a lot to take in.

They haven’t kissed yet. If they had, Clint would probably kiss him now. As it is, Clint pushes away from the bed and staggers to his feet, instead.

“Any idea where my pants are?” he asks over his shoulder.

“Over there,” Phil says, pointing without looking. He’s right. Of course Phil knows everything, even after fucking Clint’s brains out.

Clint tugs on his jeans and stuffs his boxers into his pocket. “How about my shirt then, sir?”

“By the front door,” Phil says, with a little smirk that means he’s remembering how he stripped Clint out of it as soon as they were inside. 

Clint is definitely remembering that too, now.

“Cool, thanks,” Clint says. “I’ll grab it on the way out.”

Phil nods and climbs out of bed. He grabs a bathrobe off the back of the door and shrugs it on. It’s blue and made of towelling and he should look like a dweeb in it, but he doesn’t. 

He walks Clint to the door like a proper fucking gentleman and waits while Clint puts on his shirt and tries to fix his hair in the mirror by the front door.

When Clint glances over his shoulder, Phil’s definitely trying not to laugh at him.

“Hey,” Clint protests, “fuck you, sir. It takes effort to look this good.”

Phil reaches out casually and cups Clint’s ass in a way that makes Clint lose his breath. “And I appreciate it,” he says, faux-seriously. 

Clint considers flipping him off, and then decides against it. Phil’s never been the kind of handler who minds being sworn at and fucking him is apparently now on the table, but there has to be a line somewhere, Clint’s pretty sure.

“So, um.” Clint stuffs his hands in his pocket, leaning casually against the wall by the door. “That was… cool?”

The right side of Phil’s mouth curls up. “Also hot,” he agrees, nodding. He sighs and folds his arms. “Barton – ”

“I know,” Clint interrupts quickly. “I get that it can’t happen again.”

“Actually.” Phil scratches at his temple. “I was going to suggest that maybe it _could_ happen again.”

Clint blinks. “Oh.”

“Assuming you want it to, of course.” Phil is starting to look kind of awkward. That’s normally Clint’s deal. “I’m not suggesting we date or anything.”

“No,” Clint agrees quickly. That’s a relief; he’s not good at dating.

“But we’re clearly compatible. Sexually. Even if you did apparently expect me to be disappointing.” 

Clint gives up and flips him off anyway.

“So you’re saying like, just fuckbuddies?” Clint asks. He’s never done that before, but it sounds hot.

Phil rolls his eyes. “Yes. If either of us were eighteen and no homo-ing our way around a fraternity.”

Clint laughs. That undercover gig at Spider-man’s high school did crazy things to Phil’s vocabulary. 

“I could be on board with that,” Clint says, trying to sound just the right amount of eager, not like, embarrassingly so. It’s been so long since he had regular sex and Phil’s right, they _were_ really hot together.

Phil nods like he’s satisfied with that answer. “Okay, then,” he says, “good.” He unlocks the door and holds it open for Clint. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yep,” Clint starts then stops. “No, wait, tomorrow’s Stark’s stupid suit fitting.” He groans. “Shoot me?”

Phil pats him on the shoulder. “You’ll be fine,” he says, with the evil glint of a person who’s so far managed to get out of pretty much all of Pepper and Tony’s pre-wedding hell.

“I hate you,” Clint says with feeling.

“I can live with that,” Phil tells him easily and ushers him out the door.

***

When Clint gets back to the Tower, there’s some kind of planning committee/war council thing going on in the living room. He utilises all his hard-earned ninja skills to make it past the door without anyone seeing him and ducks into the kitchen.

The fridge is packed, like always, with old takeout containers. If he could see the amount of junk food in the average superhero’s fridge, Bloomberg would have a fit. 

Clint pulls out a pizza box and shoves a handful of slices into the microwave.

He leans back against the counter while the pizza’s cooking, humming some Journey under his breath. He feels calm and relaxed down to his bones; whoever would have guessed that Phil Coulson’s cock had such magical de-stressing powers? They should market him as a natural alternative to valium.

The microwave pings and Clint burns his fingers on melted cheese when he pulls the plate out and stuffs a slice into his mouth too eagerly. Energetic sex leaves him starving.

“Shit, are you carb-loading for a siege?” a voice asks from the door and Clint turns to grin at Bucky, making sure to squish half-chewed pizza through his teeth at him.

“Gorgeous,” Bucky tells him, grabbing a slice off Clint’s plate and spinning away with it before Clint can object. 

Clint boosts himself up to sit on the counter and Bucky does the same, sharing Clint’s pizza in companionable silence.

“You hiding out from groomzilla too?” Clint asks.

Bucky snorts. “I don’t know what that means, but please tell me it’s a way of insulting Stark?”

“Yep,” Clint agrees. He tips his head up toward the ceiling. “JARVIS, can you add Godzilla to the movie list, please? The one from the fifties, not the new one.”

“Certainly,” JARVIS says, “and may I just say how relieved I am that you chose that, not the Bridezillas television programme.”

“Oh hey, add that to the list too,” Clint says, mostly just to be evil. Bucky might make it through one episode, but Steve definitely won’t.

JARVIS sighs. “Very good, sir,” he says and switches himself off.

“Aww, you pissed off the Voice of God,” Bucky laughs. He tips his neck from side to side until something clicks in his shoulder and he sighs. “Fuck, there’s a lot of paperwork involved in getting rich people hitched.”

Clint shakes his head at him. “Why the fuck are you letting yourself get dragged into it, then? Do what Nat and I do and stay well clear.”

That’s not strictly true; Clint got dragged off by Tony to look at suits a while back and was apparently not terrible at is, so he’s being made to go again tomorrow, and Natasha’s been helping Pepper check out venues but mostly they’ve done way less than Steve and Bruce and, apparently, Bucky have.

“Yeah, well,” Bucky says then adds something else that’s too quiet for Clint to catch.

“What?” Clint asks, throwing a pizza crust at him. “Speak up, old man.”

“I _said_ it’s the only way I get to see Steve, lately,” Bucky snaps then narrows his eyes, doing his best Remember That Time I Was A Scary Russian Assassin glare at Clint.

Clint holds up his hands. “I am not judging,” he promises. He might _tease_ sometimes,but he figures that guys who were apart as long as Steve and Bucky were are allowed to be as co-dependent as they like, now they’ve gotten each other back.

Bucky still looks awkward, eyes casting around as though looking for something distracting. They narrow suddenly and he leans all the way into Clint’s space, scary metal hand coming up to tug Clint’s collar down.

Cold fingers brush Clint’s throat but Clint holds still - he’s not still scared of Bucky and he’s not about to make Bucky think he is.

Bucky whistles. “Jesus, Barton, did you fuck a vampire or something.”

Clint slaps his hand away, even though it probably hurts him more than it hurts Bucky. “Fuck off.” He wonders how Phil would feel about being called a vampire in bed. He wonders how he’d feel about _Bucky Barnes_ being the one to say it.

“Got yourself a new girl?” Bucky asks.

“Nah.” Clint shrugs. “Just a hook-up.”

“Then what’s with the grinning?” Bucky jabs Clint in the cheek with a human finger. Clint much preferred him when he was standoffish and traumatised. Well, okay, he _didn’t_ , but at least he wasn’t all touchy-feely then. 

“Hey, it was a _good_ hook-up.” Clint winks and hops down off the counter. “And it wasn’t a girl.”

Bucky whoops and holds up a hand. 

“Who taught you to high five?” Clint asks, slapping palms. 

“Weirdly, Thor,” Bucky tells him then groans and slides down to the floor, too. “Okay, I’m going back into the thick of it. Wish me luck.”

“Go get ‘em, soldier,” Clint says with a sloppy salute, then takes himself off for a shower, humming as he goes.

***

“So, like, is this going to be whenever one of us is stressed?” Clint asks, looking up from Phil’s hand on his fly to Phil’s face, inches from his. “Or do we both need to be or – ”

“Since when are you so eager for there to be rules?” Phil asks and drags his fingers up the length of Clint’s cock. Even through Clint’s boxers, that feels great.

“Since when are you _not_?” Clint counters then groans. “Fuck, sir, you’re really gonna let me do this? Here?”

They’re in Phil’s office. If Clint had ever realised this was an option before, it would have gone right to the top of his personal fantasy list.

“Do what, exactly?” Phil asks. He pulls the V of Clint’s pants open wider and pushes his hand down past Clint’s dick, cupping his balls in his warm palm.

“I was kind of hoping you’d let me blow you,” Clint says. He’s been thinking about it since last time. Phil fucking him was awesome, obviously, but it didn’t give Clint much time to get a good look at Phil’s cock. 

Clint really likes cocks; he’s not embarrassed about that. He likes what they can do and how they look and how they taste and, just all of it.

Phil glances toward his office door, like he didn’t lock it as soon as he lured Clint in here. “I need to leave for a meeting with Fury in fifteen minutes,” he says thoughtfully.

“So make it quick, is what you’re saying?” Clint asks and drops down onto his knees. Phil’s hand drags the whole length of the way up his cock, meaning that Clint’s groaning before he’s even gotten his face into Phil’s crotch.

“Wait.” Phil puts his hand on top of Clint’s head, carding his fingers through Clint’s hair, and reaches out with his other hand, dragging his desk chair over. He quickly unzips his dress pants and steps out of them, laying them and his boxers on the desk before sitting down and spreading his legs for Clint.

Clint presses his face into Phil’s hairy thigh and laughs helplessly. “That was the most anal thing I have ever fucking seen,” he says. “I wasn’t gonna get come on your precious suit, Coulson.”

“I believe you,” Phil assures him, one hand on the back of Clint’s neck, telling him exactly where Phil would like his head to be, “but even the slightest possibility of having to face the Director with come stained pants would have ruined this for me.”

Clint lets himself be nudged forward, but stops before he gets too close, taking a good look at Phil’s flushed, semi-hard cock. It’s thick, which Clint already knew from how it felt inside him, cut, and nice to look at. Clint’s seen a lot of dick in his life; he’d put this one in the top five.

“Barton, we’re on the clock here,” Phil says, just the slightest edge to his voice that means he either is getting annoyed, or he just really wants his dick sucked.

That seems fair enough. 

Clint rocks forward on his knees and sucks the head into his mouth, keeping everything light while he works out what Phil likes.

“Harder than that,” Phil says quietly, so that’s what Clint does, hollowing his cheeks to see just what Phil means when he says _hard_. 

Apparently he means as much suction as Clint can manage, because he doesn’t say stop before Clint has to pull off to get some air.

“Like that?” Clint asks. 

Phil touches his hair again. “Yeah. Just. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

Clint rolls his eyes and grins up at him. “Now’s not the time to start getting polite on me. And you can pull my hair,” he says, before getting back to business.

If Clint does say so himself, he’s damn good at giving head, and it doesn’t take long before Phil’s thighs are shivering under Clint’s spread hands, muscles straining while he tries not to thrust up.

If they were somewhere other than work, Clint would totally let Phil fuck his throat until it was too raw to talk, but he makes himself settle for only taking Phil all the way down once – okay, twice – just enough to get Phil to swear at him appreciatively.

Appreciatively swearing Phil is hella sexy.

“You’re good at that,” Phil murmurs and twists his hands in Clint’s hair.

“Mmm,” Clint hums, smiling around his mouthful when Phil jerks and groans at the vibrations.

Phil slides forward in his seat, legs splaying wider. Clint goes with it and glances up at him through his eyelashes, feeling smug when he notices that Phil’s got his head back against the top of the chair, face tipped up toward the ceiling and eyes screwed shut.

It’s weird, because Clint’s known Phil forever. He’s probably Clint’s best (non-Natasha) friend and he’s always been exactly Clint’s type without Clint ever feeling the need to do anything about it, but, right now, he is really shockingly beautiful.

Clint takes his hand off Phil’s thigh and wraps it around his cock. The countdown in Clint’s head is telling him that they have three minutes left. 

He doesn’t want to make Phil late, because then he might not get to do this again, so he pulls out every trick he knows: draws patterns with his tongue, adds a little bit of teeth, keeps his hand tight and firm around the base, except for the times when he has to take it away so he can give Phil a quick deepthroat. Or two.

Phil’s making sexy, strangled noises, biting off moans, even though the offices here are more or less soundproofed.

Clint tangles his fingers up with Phil’s and his handful of Clint’s hair and makes Phil press Clint’s head down. He holds it there until Phil gets the message and fucks up into Clint’s mouth, belly twitching against Clint’s forehead as he comes down Clint’s throat.

Once Phil’s done, Clint pulls off and sits back hard on his ass, not worrying about looking sexy or cool or any of the things he might care about, if this was a _relationship_ rather than sex, just shoves his hand into his boxers and jerks himself off.

It takes about thirty seconds for Clint to come. He promised not to make a mess of Phil’s pants; he never said anything about his own.

Phil’s still catching his breath and watching Clint when the sparkly black spots clear from Clint’s eyes.

“Thanks,” Phil says, sounding sincere, not the way they usually talk to each other, “you really _are_ good at that.”

“Aren’t you going to be late?” Clint asks. Clint is an excellent fuck buddy; he sucks cock but still makes sure you’re not late for your next appointment.

Phil blinks once and then his Agent Coulson expression is back in place. “You’re right,” he says. “Why can’t you exhibit that kind of time management skill in the field?”

“My time management is awesome; I just operate in a slightly different time zone,” Clint protests, wriggling around to get his cock back in his underwear and his pants zipped up, while Phil steps back into his own, still pristine, clothes.

Phil straightens his suit jacket and then comes to stand over Clint. He holds his hand out and Clint grabs it, bracing himself to his feet.

“You were making the place look untidy,” Phil says, voice laughing.

Clint finds himself taking a half-step closer before stopping, turning what would have been a kiss into straightening Phil’s tie with exaggerated, assholish care.

“Can’t have you going to Fury looking like you just got fucked,” Clint says, widening his eyes innocently.

Phil slaps his hands away. “Thank you for your concern,” he says, rolling his eyes, and picks his tablet, a notebook, and a pen off the desk.

Clint kind of hovers. He didn’t actually need to be in the office today, just wanted out of the Tower, so he’s not sure where to put himself now.

“Need somewhere to hide from Stark?” Phil asks, corners of his mouth turning up like Clint’s own personal _Say Yes To The Dress_ trauma is entertaining to him.

“I have no idea what you mean,” Clint lies.

Phil nods at the couch lining one wall of his office. “I’ll be out all afternoon. What I don’t know won’t hurt me.” He tosses Clint the keys to the door. “Lock up and leave them with Claire, if you need to go before I get back.”

Clint catches the keys out of the air and grins, running his fingers over the teeth and trying to ignore how it still feels good to be trusted with something like that, even after all these years of being on the side of the angels. Or, like, the nicer class of devils, anyway.

“I’ll try not to steal all your silver, sir,” he promises and laughs again when Phil sighs at him and lets himself out.

Clint throws himself down onto Phil’s couch, otherwise known as The World’s Best Couch Ever and grins up at the ceiling. This fuckbuddies plan was their best idea yet.

***

Clint isn’t sure if he’s in hell or if it just feels like it. If he’s not, it’s something very close to it, because Tony is _Tony Stark_ , so he’s hired out a casino on the Atlantic City Boardwalk for his bachelor party.

There are champagne fountains scattered around the room and twenty thousand dollar bottles of tequila on every table, girls and guys in skimpy black and white outfits drifting around handing out canapés and gold chips to anyone who catches their eye. 

Clint is keeping well away from the gambling tables. The only way he knows how to gamble is by cheating, and while Tony probably won’t care if Clint fleeces his rich friends and investors, Clint’s an Avenger now and he can’t do that.

“You look like you’re scoping out escape routes,” Bruce says, sidling up to Clint. He’s got his arms folded across his chest, like he’s trying to play down the width of his shoulders and disappear into the ether.

“I’m always doing that,” Clint says, laughing like he’s joking. “You okay?”

“I’ve met far more pop stars and millionaires than I’ve ever wanted to,” Bruce says with a shrug, “but it’s slightly less traumatic than I was expecting.”

“Yeah.” Clint watches someone he’s pretty sure is Katy Perry win at craps and turn around to high five Bruce Wayne.

His life is weird.

“Team,” Tony cries, tripping over and flinging a heavy arm around each of their shoulders. “Are you having fun? This is fun, right?”

“Tony, this is awful,” Bruce says, smiling in that way of his that makes it impossible to be offended.

“It really is,” Clint agrees with his own apologetic shrug. 

Tony rolls his eyes at them both. “Wait ‘til the stripping starts, you’ll love that.”

“Seriously?” Clint asks, pulling away because the combination of all these people and Tony’s drunk, happy clinging is pushing him way over his tolerance for touching. “You’re having strippers and Captain America in the same place?”

“Don’t worry,” Tony says, patting him on the shoulder, “I got some boy strippers for him and Barnes. It’ll all be very Magic Mike. Actually, I maybe hired Channing Tatum. I should check on that.”

Clint groans and shakes his head. 

“I really don’t think that was Clint’s point,” Bruce suggests.

Tony smacks a big, loud kiss on his cheek. “Just stick around, please?” he says. He musses both their hair. “I hate everyone else here.”

He sounds like he’s joking. Clint thinks he probably isn’t.

“Ugh, fine,” Clint sighs and leans back against the wall, thrusting his empty glass into the nearest champagne fountain. “But if Mick Jagger over there starts singing, I’m out of here.”

***

It takes a million years but eventually the party winds down, and then it’s just them again, sitting around one big table in the middle of the floor while the cleaning crew dart around, putting everything back how it should be.

Clint kind of feels like he should help. The only reason he hasn’t tried is that Steve already offered and they stared at him in silent horror until he apologised and sat back down.

“Have you got a seven?” Steve asks now, looking over the top of his cards at Thor.

Thor blows out a gusty sigh and slams a pair of sevens down on the table. “You do not have to search for fish, my friend.”

Bucky laughs and refills Thor’s drink for him, patting him consoling on the shoulder. “He’s always been a shark, buddy. It’s the big blue eyes that fool you.”

“Bucky,” Steve says chidingly, “I’m not cheating.”

“How would you even cheat at Go Fish?” Tony asks, leaning across the table and looking interested.

“I don’t know!” Steve protests, holding up his hands. He glares across the table at Bucky. “See what you did?”

Bucky shrugs and salutes him with an empty champagne glass. “Barton,” he says over Tony’s head, “got any fours?”

“Go fish,” Clint says and kicks back in his chair. This is no more ridiculous, really, than the other half of Tony’s party – who hires a casino, kicks everyone out just after midnight, then uses it play kids games with the guys he works with? – but Clint’s enjoying it way more.

Judging by the smirk on his face, so is Tony.

Tony’s still needling Steve, and Bucky’s still egging him on, so Clint closes his eyes and leans back further in his chair. He’s kind of tipsy, he’s with good people; it’s a good night.

He’s too comfortable to react much when his phone vibrates in his pocket, just slides it out and holds it up over his head to read.

He’s expecting Natasha. She’s out doing something classy with Pepper and Happy and some of the other people she met when she was undercover, and he’s been expecting mockery all night for only being cool enough to score an invite to Stark’s party.

It turns out not to be Natasha, but Phil. 

_New Jersey still standing?_

That’s all he’s written. They text each other sometimes, but there’s normally at least something vaguely work-related to start off with.

Although, maybe he actually _is_ worried about the continued well-being of the state of New Jersey. So Clint texts back: _everything still standing. Didn’t even let thor ride the ferry_

Two minutes later, he gets: _I’m proud of you. I might recommend a commendation._

Clint grins. _aslong as youre the one pinning it on sir_

He doesn’t think Phil will reply again. Clint doesn’t know what it is he’s doing tonight, but Phil’s normally too busy to waste time on the phone. So it’s a surprise when Phil replies. 

_I’m shaking my head at you._

The others are still chatting about card games they have cheated at - well, Tony and Bucky are, Thor seems to be learning tips and Steve keeps sighing - and it’s nice, it really is, but it’d be nicer if Phil were here.

Because Clint is not exactly sober, he maybe ends up telling Phil that: _A party aint a party til phil coulson walks in_  
  
He waits, but Phil doesn’t reply. 

“Hey, Barton, it’s your turn,” Tony says, somehow managing to kick him despite being all the way across the table. Clint suspects Bruce helped. Traitor.

“Tony, have you got any threes?” Clint asks expressionlessly and without checking his cards to see what he needs.

“Go fish,” Tony says brightly. When Clint tips forward to look at him, it’s pretty obvious that Tony didn’t check his cards either. Seems fair.

“Who were you texting?” Bruce asks. He looks way happier too, now that it’s just the six of them. 

“No one,” Clint says, ruining his finesse by bumping himself on the forehead with his cell when he goes to put it away.

“Same guy as before?” Bucky asks. He’s got his arm around the back of Steve’s chair; Steve’s head is tilted back so it’s just brushing the curve of Bucky’s shoulder. 

“Guy?” Tony demands. “What guy?”

“Do you have a lover, Clint?” Thor asks looking just as interested as Tony, but much less evil about it.

Clint glares daggers at Bucky, who mouths _oops_ but really doesn’t look sorry enough for Clint’s taste.

“There’s no guy,” Clint tells them and it’s not a lie because it’s just sex, it’s not like they’re dating. “And what is this? The Avengers stitch’n’bitch?”

“Oooh,” Tony says, eyes shining. “Oh, that’d be fun. We should start one of those.”

Bruce laughs. “Can you imagine Fury knitting? Or Agent Hill?”

Clint has actually seen _Phil_ knit, but it was a very cold night and very long ago, so he doesn't mention it. 

“Is that how he lost his eye?” Tony asks. 

His gaze drifts up and over Clint’s head at the end of the question, which Clint puts down to how much he’s been drinking until he hears a very familiar sigh from just behind him. 

“No, Stark,” Phil says, but whether that’s an answer or a _just don’t_ , Clint isn’t sure.

“Hey.” Clint lets his chair legs thump back down with a bump and tips his head all the way back. “What’re you doing here?”

Phil looks at him, head tilted. “Barton, you’re drunk.”

Clint grins at him. “Little bit. Champagne, sir?”

“No, thank you,” Phil says, and pulls over a chair, sitting down on it backwards. He looks tired. He picks up Clint’s abandoned glass and fills it with tequila from the table. He takes a gulp then pulls a face. “That’s disgusting.”

Tony makes a wounded noise in his throat. “Hey, that shit costs twenty-four thousand dollars, Agent Philistine.”

Phil widens his eyes in what (to Clint) is obviously fake shock. “You’re joking. You could have built a hospital wing for a couple of these, Stark.”

“Fuck off,” Tony says, narrowing his eyes. “It’s my damn bachelor party.”

Steve rolls his eyes, smiling in that confused-but-pleased-by-Tony-Stark way of his. “He built a hospital wing _too,”_ he tells Phil.

Phil doesn’t look surprised, but he also doesn’t comment. “Pepper’s party had cocktails,” he says. He looks around. “Also one room at a modestly sized club, not an entire casino.”

“Pepper does always think too small,” Tony agrees, shaking his head sadly.

“Wait.” Clint waves a finger at Phil, belatedly catching on. “You picked Pepper’s party over us?” He totally meant to say over _Tony_ there, but whatever. He thought Phil was working, not socialising somewhere else.

Phil spreads his hands. “I picked the party that was least likely to be full of drunken superheroes by midnight,” he says.

Thor frowns. “Were you not providing security for Lady Pepper’s party?” he asks. “That is what you told me you would be doing.”

“Wait, what?” Tony asks at the same time that Phil shoots a frown at Thor. Clint knows they’ve been weirdly friendly ever since New Mexico, but he doesn’t like that Phil would tell Thor something like that but not tell Clint.

“Nothing to worry about, Stark,” Phil tells him. “We picked up some chatter and we investigated it. But the party went fine. Pepper and Natasha and some of the others are back at the tower now making vodka cocktails.”

“But – ” Tony starts, beginning to look agitated.

Bruce pats him awkwardly on the shoulder. “Coulson says it’s fine, so it’s fine. Isn’t your tower impenetrable, anyway?”

“Yes, true,” Tony agrees slowly, starting to puff up a little. “There is that. JARVIS and Pepper can handle everything. Coulson, I don’t know what you were worried about.”

Phil rolls his eyes and leans over to take the overflowing glass of champagne Thor is offering him. Clint maybe watches the way Phil’s dark shirt stretches across his back when he moves, the way it accentuates his shoulders, but he figures no one will notice.

Next second, Clint’s phone buzzes. He glances down and frowns; he didn’t even see Phil move:

_Do you have a room here tonight?_

Clint bites his lip so he doesn’t smile and types back _yyy_ , which is maybe two y’s too enthusiastic, but whatever.

***

Phil doesn’t touch him until they’re inside Clint’s room. It’s the longest elevator ride of Clint’s life.

Then Phil touches him kind of a _lot_.

“Ow,” Clint groans, not a complaint at all, when Phil slams him backwards into the nearest wall, one hand on the back of Clint’s head, but otherwise letting the impact jolt through him.

“Stop whining, Barton,” Phil says and bites him under the jaw.

“Fuck, yes,” Clint sighs, dropping his head back. He drags his hands up into Phil’s hair, running his fingers through it and laughing at how easily it fluffs up.

Phil pulls back, frowning over at him. “You really _are_ drunk,” he says, narrowing his eyes. 

“No, I’m fine, I’m good,” Clint promises, doing his best to pull Phil back to what he was doing without like, breaking his neck. “It’s worn off. I’m just kind of punchy.” Punchy and horny. Champagne always makes him horny; he’d forgotten.

Phil is really amazingly stubborn, however, so he stays where he is, just watching Clint like he’s searching out his weakness or something. Clint tries not to fidget.

Phil looks awesome tonight; he’s wearing one of his nicest suits and his shirt’s a dark, flattering blue instead of his usual white. Clint wants to rub his hands all over him.

“Take your clothes off and lie on the bed,” Phil says, stepping back.

Clint reaches out for him instinctively, wanting to keep him within arm’s reach, but forces his arms down immediately after, embarrassed for himself.

“You just gonna watch?” he asks, willingly shedding the stupid damn tie Tony insisted he had to wear to this shindig. He hands it to Phil, along with his shirt and jacket, because Clint is a shit by nature and Phil is pathologically incapable of letting nice clothes get crumpled on the floor.

“Pants too,” Phil says, laying Clint’s now neatly folded shirt on the dresser and hanging both their jackets over the back of the chair. 

“What about you?” Clint asks, kicking his way out of his pants. He’s at that stage of tipsy where he’s not totally sure if what’s funny to him is actually funny, so he folds them himself.

“Just you for the moment,” Phil says, but he does take off his shoes and socks.

When Clint’s totally naked, he sprawls back on the bed, feet braced flat on the bed and raises his eyebrows at Phil. “Hey.”

Phil shakes his head at him, but he stills says, “hi,” back. Clint’s pleased he can sometimes make Phil play along.

“Come here,” Clint says, surprised when Phil actually does, stretching out along Clint’s side, his hand on Clint’s belly.

“Did you have a good time tonight?” Phil asks conversationally, rubbing his fingers up and down Clint’s happy trail. Clint’s not really hard yet, but he’s definitely going to get there soon, if Phil keeps doing that.

“Yeah, it was okay,” Clint tells him, dropping his knee to the side to give Phil more room. “Did you?”

Phil’s hand drifts from Clint’s belly to the crease between his thigh and groin. “I spent eighty percent of it in a car outside, keeping watch.” He lets his thumb brush the base of Clint’s cock and Clint breathes out a gusty moan. “The part after my shift ended was fun though; Natasha was teaching Happy _lucha libre_.”

Clint laughs. “Man, I would like to see that.” It’s always awesome to watch Natasha wrestle, especially with people who don’t expect it from her.

“I’m fairly certain Darcy was taping it,” Phil tells him, leaning in to bite Clint’s collarbone.

“Shit, what’s with you and the biting?” Clint asks, not complaining at all. In answer, Phil bites him at the top of his right pec. Clint closes his eyes. “Fuck, that feels good, why does that feel so good.”

“Because I’m very good at sex.” Phil sucks his nipple into his mouth and flicks his tongue over it wetly. 

Clint kind of gives up trying to talk right then and says, “oh,” and “fuck,” a lot, instead.

Phil pulls back with a pop and sits up, straddling Clint’s thighs. “Barton,” he says, getting all up in Clint’s face, “can you do something for me?”

Even still all dressed up, Phil looks and sounds like sex; Clint can’t think of anything he wouldn’t do for him.

“Yeah?” he asks, trying to sound casual about it.

Phil lays his hand over Clint’s cock, which is fully hard and flushed now. “Don’t come until I tell you to, okay?”

Clint swallows. “You like telling people what to do, huh?” he asks.

“Yes,” Phil says, like it’s simple. 

Apparently it is. “Okay,” Clint agrees. He drops his hands from where they’ve found their way onto Phil’s shoulders and lays them flat on the bed. “Whatever you want.”

Phil closes his eyes briefly. “Put your hands up above your head,” he says and leans in to press his mouth to Clint’s armpit, when Clint does.

Turns out that letting Phil have his uninterrupted way with Clint’s body is basically the hottest thing ever to happen. Phil touches and licks and bites him everywhere and Clint’s a shaking mess by the time Phil rolls him over and spreads his ass cheeks. 

“Oh fuck,” Clint groans into his folded arms, “you don’t got to do that, if you - ”

“I like doing this,” Phil says simply, and, well, what’s Clint going to say to that?

Phil licks a short, wet line over Clint’s hole and Clint bites into his own folded arms so he doesn’t yell loud enough to get hotel security in here. His cock’s been ready to go for a while now and, by this point it actually hurts when he shoves a hand under himself and squeezes the base hard so he won’t come.

The noises he’s making are more pained than happy, he’s pretty sure, even though he _is_ enjoying this. It’s nice to have someone _so_ focused just on him, for once.

“Clint?” Phil asks softly, putting a hand on the small of Clint’s back. “We don’t have to do it like this. I can get you off right now, if waiting doesn’t work for you.”

“No, no, it’s good.” Clint shakes his head, reaching back for Phil and finding his hand. “It’s just, I don’t know, intense?”

Phil kisses the curve of Clint’s left ass cheek. “I’ll let you come soon,” he promises, then goes back to eating Clint out.

“It’s okay, it’s good, I’m good,” Clint mumbles, squeezing Phil’s fingers. He closes his eyes and decides to see what happens if he just gives himself over to what he’s feeling.

What happens is pretty fucking spectacular: an orgasm that numbs him from his ears to his toes, followed by Phil coming all over ass and rubbing it into his skin.

Maybe he’s just not remembering hard enough, but Clint doesn’t remember sex ever being quite like that for him, before.

***

Clint’s surprised when Phil doesn’t pack up and leave immediately after. He strips off his clothes and bullies them both into the snazzy, ridiculously huge hotel shower, instead.

As much as Clint would like to fuck Phil here, with the pressurised water beating down on them and the gold-tinted tiles glinting all around, the booze and the sex and the waiting so _long_ for his orgasm have kind of wiped him out. The most he can manage is a not very seductive flop against Phil’s shoulder.

Phil doesn’t seem to mind, bossing him around the cubicle, handing him shower gel and a face cloth and shampoo when appropriate. Clint might object to it more, but this is always how they’ve worked together. Phil’s always prodded him and gotten him moving to where he needs to be; apparently adding sex doesn’t change that at all.

“I need to stay here tonight,” Phil says apologetically once they’re dry and Clint has slumped into bed with no plans to ever more again.

Clint squints open one eye. “Okay,” he says, like that isn’t kind of a fundamental shift in their MO.

Phil looks weirdly awkward, which he almost never does. “I don’t have a room here; it would look suspicious if I suddenly went back downstairs and asked for one, after all this time.”

Right, of course. Makes sense. “You think Stark’s still – ” Clint stops himself, laughing shortly. “Yeah, okay, of course Stark’s still lurking around down there.” He pats clumsily at the comforter. “C’mon then.”

Phil hesitates. “I can take the sofa?” Obviously there’s a sofa; this is a hotel _Tony_ picked out. 

“Sure, if you want to fuck up your back,” Clint agrees with a shrug. He rolls over onto his belly, burying his face in his pillow.

He’s not even slightly surprised when Phil crawls in beside him a couple of minutes later. 

“Warning, Natasha says I kick,” Clint tells him sleepily.

Phil pats him on the back of his shoulder. “Trust me, Barton, I’m not surprised to hear that.”

Clint grabs his hand, stilling it. Drowsily, he drags Phil’s arm across his chest. Phil goes still and uncooperative for a minute then clearly decides to let Clint have his own way, because he relaxes against Clint’s back.

They fall quiet and Clint’s just sliding into sleep when Phil shifts, pressing a messy kiss against his shoulder.

“Hm?” Clint hums, too tired to wake up all the way and ask what that was for.

Phil doesn’t answer and Clint loses his battle against sleep before he can really wonder too hard about it.

***

Clint is pretty sure he doesn’t end up kicking Phil while they’re sleeping, but he still wakes up alone, with no sign Phil was ever here.

Well, no sign other than the hickeys and bite marks on Clint’s chest and thighs and ass. Natasha used to smack him around in bed sometimes, but no one’s ever bitten him before. He definitely likes it.

There’s a text from Bucky on his phone, which makes Clint grin and roll his eyes:

_Me &steve & bruce gn hme. Stark & thor still snoring. U gt lucky lst night?_

It’s always kind of entertaining how enthusiastically Bucky has embraced text speak. Also entertaining how much it pains Steve to get a text from him. 

_Fuck off_ , Clint types back and pockets his phone before going down to check out.

***

He’s planning to go straight home, fall into bed and sleep away the rest of the weekend, which doesn’t explain at all why he dumps his stuff, changes into jeans and a t-shirt and heads straight out again.

He stops off at the Coffee Bean on the way off the subway and thrusts a cup at Phil as soon as he opens the door.

“Hi?” Phil says, taking the coffee. He looks like he had the same idea as Clint; he’s wearing black sweats and a USMC sweatshirt, feet bare and flushed pink from the warmth of the apartment.

“Hi,” Clint says brightly, closing the door and leaning back against it. 

Phil looks at him for a minute then sighs and leads Clint toward his living room.

“I hope you brought food,” he says, “because I’m not cooking for you.”

“Sir, I’ve tasted your food,” Clint reminds him, digging into his jacket pocket and pulling out a paper bag of (slightly battered) Danish pastries.

He throws it down onto the coffee table and smirks when Phil does a really bad job of pretending not to be interested.

“If only Hydra knew about your sweet tooth,” Clint says sadly, popping the lid off his coffee. He honestly does mean to throw it in the trash but then he realises what a good projectile it’d make and whizzes it at Phil’s head, instead.

Phil snatches it out of mid-air (just like Clint knew he would) and crumples it in a fist before throwing it back at Clint (just like Clint knew he would).

“Brat,” Phil says and sits down, jerking his head for Clint to do the same, as though he thinks Clint will be less trouble sitting down.

Clint probably won’t be.

Clint drops down next to Phil and fiddles with his own coffee cup. He isn’t totally sure what he’s doing here, just that he has nothing to do this weekend and he doesn’t want to spend it at the Tower. 

“If I have to listen to one more speech about the benefits of real flowers over plastic ones for a wedding bouquet, I’m going to strangle someone,” he says. It’s true; if it also implies that it’s what’s driven him here today, that’s not (totally) his fault.

Phil laughs. “You’re safe here,” he promises, “I have absolutely no opinions on anything to do with weddings.”

“That’s a lie,” Clint says. “Sir. You bitch out that really ugly see-through dress with the lacy boob holders on _Say Yes To The Dress_ , every week.”

Phil glances at him sideways. “Never happened,” he says and bites into a cheese Danish with dignity.

“Uh huh,” Clint says and flashes him a grin, relieved that Phil isn’t going to call him on his embarrassingly flimsy excuse to hang out. 

Clint doesn’t even know why he wants to be here, but he does and, since he pretty much never _wants_ to be around other people, he’s decided to go with it, just to see where it takes him.

***

It turns out not to take him much further than the couch. Phil switches on the TV for Clint and picks up his laptop, tucks himself into the corner of the armchair and sends email after email while Clint watches shitty TV on Netflix.

It’s relaxing.

Clint doesn’t relax often; he’s not very good at it normally, but it feels weirdly easy to do it here. Easy enough, actually, that when Phil puts down his laptop and kicks Clint on the ankle, Clint realises he was less than half awake.

“Tired?” Phil asks quietly. He doesn’t sound like he’s cataloguing it for Clint’s file, just softly curious.

“Yeah, kind of,” Clint agrees, yawning. Phil’s still watching him and it makes him itchy, he doesn’t know why, so he has to break the mood. “Someone kept me up most of the night.”

Phil sits back, eyes narrowed in that way of his where he thinks that’ll hold back a blush. “You kick in your sleep.”

Clint shrugs. “I warned you.”

They don’t normally talk about this fucking thing that they do now – Clint isn’t sure why, he’s not embarrassed about it and they’re _great_ at fucking each other – this is maybe the closest they’ve come.

He wonders if sex is on the table for today. It’s not why he came around, but he wouldn’t say _no_.

Phil presses his foot to Clint’s again. It’s not a kick, Clint’s awake enough to realise now, just a touch. “Go back to your nap. Nanny Jo’s about to put someone on the naughty step.”

Clint stretches, shaking his head. “That’s like porn for you, isn’t it?” he asks, but he’s already sinking back into the couch, closing his eyes.

***

Clint wakes up to banging in the kitchen. It’s dark in the living room and his head feels muzzy from napping during the day, but underneath that, he does finally feel refreshed.

He finds Phil poking suspiciously at a packet of frozen sweet potato fries and reaches out to take them from him with his eyes still half-closed.

“Get a tray,” Clint tells him, “and some oil. It’s not hard.” Cooking is about the only useful, real-world thing that Clint is better at that Phil is. Clint’s never asked why that is, but he suspects that SHIELD is the first time Phil’s ever had anything close to a 9-5 life, and that he’s faking it ‘til he makes it.

“I was getting to that part,” Phil says (he’s probably lying) but he lets Clint boss him around until there are fries in the oven and cheese-filled pasta boiling on the stove.

“Meal of the gods,” Clint grins, leaning back against the counter and watching the water bubble.

“Mmm,” Phil not-agrees and then his arm is around Clint’s waist, pulling him in.

“Hey?” Clint asks, putting his hands flat on Phil’s chest and quirking a questioning eyebrow at him.

“It just occurred to me that I’ve never kissed you,” Phil says. “Can I?”

“I – ” Clint had honestly not been expecting kissing. Since it didn’t happened the first, second or third time they hooked up, he’d just assumed it was a thing Phil didn’t do.

Phil’s hand loosens on his waist. “Or not,” he says, stepping back.

Clint’s hands tighten of their own accord, fisting into Phil’s hoodie. “You didn’t give me time to answer,” he protests. “What kind of a person _asks_ if they can kiss someone?”

“A decent person?” Phil offers but he’s already angling in, teasing grin bumping with Clint’s.

“You’re supposed to seize me and – Oof.” Clint breaks off when Phil does genuinely fucking _seize_ him, pushing him all the way back into the counter and biting his bottom lip.

“Oh, Agent Coulson,” Clint sighs, all breathy. If it maybe comes out a little _more_ Harlequin than he was intending, that’s only because anyone would feel kind of shell-shocked with the full force of Phil’s attention centred on their mouth.

“Will you just – ” Phil doesn’t finish his sentence (Clint figures it’s _shut up_ ), just pushes his knee between Clint’s thighs and his tongue into Clint’s mouth.

Phil’s a dirty kisser, Clint isn’t sure if he was expecting that, and Clint’s arms end up locked around his neck, their sweatshirts both pushed up so their bellies and chests can rub together.

For the record, Phil’s chest hair feels like sin against Clint’s nipples.

“No, hang on,” Phil says, hands sliding down Clint’s sides to curl around his hips. “I’m not having sex with you in my kitchen.”

Clint glances over at the timer on the over. There’s still ten minutes before their dinner is done. “Let’s go to your bedroom, then. Or, fuck, the sofa, I don’t care.”

Phil presses his mouth to the underside of Clint’s jaw. “We’re staying right here,” he says firmly. “If I get you horizontal, we won’t be getting up for dinner.”

“Yeah?” Clint asks, rolling his hips against Phil’s thigh. It sends a jolt for friction through to his balls and, _shit_ , that feels good. “Wanna make out like teenagers instead, then?”

“That was my plan,” Phil agrees and drops his hands down to Clint’s ass, dragging him in closer still.

***

Dinner is fine – it’s food, it gives them energy – but it also uses up exactly as much patience as Clint has left. He drags Phil away from even thinking about the dishes and straight into the bedroom.

“I’m not going to spend the whole weekend in bed with you,” Phil warns him, making that look kind of like a lie just from the speed with which he gets all their clothes off.

“Duh,” Clint says, “it’s Saturday evening already. Come here.”

“Do you have to have an answer for everything?” Phil asks and crawls between Clint’s spread legs, leaning over him to kiss him again.

This whole kissing thing was an A++ idea; Clint will have to remember to tell Phil that when they’re not in the middle of doing it. 

Phil isn’t a big man - he’s the same height as Clint and not as broad - but somehow he manages to completely overwhelm Clint when he looms over him in bed like this.

Clint reaches up and lays his hands flat on Phil’s back, fingers getting distracted stroking over smooth skin and solid muscle. There’s a pattern of raised bumps on Phil’s left shoulder blade (rock salt blast; Clint was there for that one), and a long, thin scar just above his hip that Clint can’t identify.

He wants to skip over the scar that lies in between but he shouldn’t, doesn’t, can’t.

Phil goes still. The mark from Loki’s staff is raised at the edges, still shiny to the touch, even though it’s been two years since the Helicarrier. Clint hopes it doesn’t still hurt.

“Sir?” he asks, lifting his hand. 

Phil shakes his head sharply. “Don’t do that,” he says, sounding annoyed. “We’re having sex, not dwelling on the past.”

“I’m – ” Clint swallows back the denial. Yeah, okay, he was maybe about to go down that road. “Sorry.”

“No.” Phil sighs. He presses his mouth against Clint’s, no tongue, just pressure. 

Not sure how to get them back to where they were, Clint awkwardly puts his hand back onto Phil’s skin and matches the other one up with it on the other side. 

Somehow, Phil’s right side is much less scarred that his left and Clint’s left hand glides down easily, stilling in the dip of Phil’s lower back before curving around his ass.

Clint’s surprised when Phil lets Clint guide Phil’s hips down to meet his. Phil is normally the one directing things. It makes Clint feel a little bit heady and a little bit uncertain, but Phil goes with it and their cocks and balls roll and slide together until it’s so good that Clint can’t worry about anything except getting more.

“Give me your hand,” Phil says, apparently done with his five minutes of letting Clint take the lead, and wraps both their hands around both their cocks.

It feels like an electric shock. 

Clint can’t keep his feet still on the bed. He feels restless, desperate and he keeps having to break the kisses to remind himself to breathe, before pulling Phil back for more.

Phil’s thumb drags slowly over the head of Clint’s cock, tripping from one side to the other of too much, and Clint throws his head back and thinks that if they _do_ spend the whole weekend in bed, it just might kill him.

***

Clint doesn’t go back to Stark Tower until Monday morning.

Honestly, he hadn’t planned to invade Phil’s apartment for the entire weekend. He’d expected that there’d be a disaster and they’d get called in at some point, but they never did. 

So they just kind of fucked and hung out and failed at cooking shit in Phil’s kitchen and before Clint knew it, it was Monday and Phil was getting ready for work.

Phil’s _fun_ to hang out with. It’s not a surprise, Clint’s always liked Phil, but he hadn’t anticipated that he’d be that easy to spend that much time with.

Clint never normally finds anyone easy, not even himself sometimes.

“Where were you?” Natasha asks, appearing in Clint’s doorway as soon as he’s kicked his shoes under the bed. “James says you’re seeing someone.”

She doesn’t sound hurt, because Natasha will never let on that she cares about anything as petty as Clint getting a new squeeze and not telling her about it, so instead, she sounds pissed.

Clint arches his back until it pops and strips out of his t-shirt while he rifles around in his closet for another one.

It’s possible he’s deliberately letting her see all his hickeys, since their favourite ways of telling each other things are the ones that don’t involve words.

“Who?” Natasha asks. There’s something sharp but controlled about her tone. “Did he ask before he made all those marks all over you?”

“It could be a girl,” Clint tells her, like she needs reminding of that. He wonders just how many bite marks Phil left on him. 

“You have fingerprints at the back of your hips,” Natasha says. “If it’s a girl, she has unusually large hands.”

“You sure you’re not Sherlock Holmes in your spare time?” Clint asks, rather than answering. He shouldn’t feel a little thrill in his belly at the idea of Phil leaving bruises, but he does.

Natasha doesn’t answer. When he pulls on a fresh t-shirt and turns to look at her, she’s sitting in the middle of his bed, patiently waiting.

Clint sighs. “Yeah, he gave me plenty of chances to say no if I didn’t like it,” he says. “I liked it, okay?”

“Hmm.” Natasha’s eyes narrow. “You like him.”

“I like _sex_ with him,” Clint agrees. “Seriously, it’s good sex. If you want, I’ll tell you all about it.”

Natasha looks unimpressed. “Please don’t,” she says. She slaps a hand down on the comforter. From anyone else, that would be patting the bed invitingly, but not from her. “Sit here and listen while _I_ tell _you_ everything you missed over the weekend. Stark has been talking about doves.”

Clint groans and sits down. “Not seriously?”

“Seriously. He’s talking about dyeing them red and gold.” Natasha pauses then leans forward and smacks Clint upside the head. “And you left me alone with that.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Clint says, meaning it. He flicks her kneecap consolingly. “I’m here now?”

“Hmm,” Natasha says again and it’s just as unmoved as the first time. “That’s not much use.” But she smiles and Clint knows he’s forgiven.

***

It feels like it’s only ten minutes since Tony was fussing about the best way to propose, but all of a sudden, it’s six days before the wedding.

Colonel Rhodes flies in on the Tuesday and cheerfully steals a glass of whiskey out of Tony’s hand before taking over official best man duties.

Bucky salutes him and drags Steve off for what, Clint’s pretty sure, is going to be an attempt at catching up on all the sex they missed while Steve was trying to keep Tony sane.

The rest of them all breathe one huge sigh of relief and kind of flop onto the nearest soft surface. Bruce looks like he’s thinking about Hulking out, so he won’t even have to wait for a _soft_ surface.

***

On Wednesday, there’s a minor issue with a college kid, too much plutonium, and some briefly sentient and killer iPods.

It says a lot about how much they all want to escape the Tower that there’s a quick and very nasty game of rock, paper, lightning bolt, scissors to see who’ll go deal with it.

In the end, Clint, Natasha and Thor win.

They save the city – and donate the iPods to a school because the Apple Store doesn’t seem to want them back – then go for waffles.

“If anyone asks, it took hours to find them all and we all nearly died at least six times. Agreed?” Natasha says, signalling the waitress for another cup of coffee.

“Totally.” Hell yes Clint agrees. He tries to sneak his fork over to the third tower of fresh pancakes on Thor’s plate.

Thor spears him with a look. Also with a fork. 

“I for one will be relieved when these festivities are over,” Thor says. He pauses and then adds uncertainly, “Is so much preparation and extravagance necessary for every wedding in Midgard? I do not think My Jane will enjoy that.”

“No, that’s just Stark,” Natasha says dismissively.

“Wait.” Clint leans closer. Thor has kind of a boomy voice, even when he’s whispering, and Clint thinks maybe they don’t want this splashed across the papers just yet. “Are you and Jane getting married?”

Thor tries to smile coyly but it turns into a bright, shiny thing that splits across his face. “We have discussed it,” he admits. “She would prefer to wait until her tenure on Tromsøya has come to an end.”

Wow. Clint wonders if this is how normal people feel when their friends start pairing off for good. He hasn’t even ever found a houseplant he’s really ready to commit to. 

“That’s awesome, dude,” he says. In celebration, he decides to leave Thor’s pancakes alone. “You guys can have a quickie wedding at City Hall, if that’s what Jane wants. The whole glitz and glamour thing is more for people like Stark, who have more money than god.” He thinks that over. “Like, _God_ god, not you.”

Thor nods sagely. “Tony also has more money that me.” He frowns. “I would like for it to be special, however.”

Clint shrugs. “Pretty sure when it’s the right person, you don’t need all that fancy shit, you know? Not if you don’t want it.”

Natasha raises her eyebrows, looking at Clint weirdly.

“What?” he asks her, genuinely confused. He can have opinions about relationships, can’t he? Just because he isn’t in one doesn’t mean he doesn’t understand the theory.

Natasha just keeps _looking_ at him. Finally, she smiles. 

Clint has no idea what’s going on with her. Maybe he’ll ask Bucky.

***

Phil calls him on Thursday, and spends ten minutes asking about the wedding prep.

Clint blinks out at the view across Manhattan and answers automatically, until there’s a good moment to butt in with, “Everything, okay, sir?”

They don’t call each other up to chat. That’s not a thing that they do.

Plus Clint is really shitty on the phone and if Phil wants that to change, he’s going to need to give Clint some warning.

There’s a pause. Clint has a second to worry that maybe Phil did just want to chat and Clint’s embarrassed him.

“I’m going on a mission tonight,” Phil says after a minute. “I can’t tell you where. I shouldn’t even have told you that.”

“Oh,” Clint says. His brain cycles through possible responses like: _tell me anyway so I can follow you_ or _you’re going without me or Nat?_ or _be careful_. He’s proud of himself for not letting any of that shit out.

“Anyway.” Phil clears his throat. “That was all I wanted to say. Although I did want to know about the wedding, too.”

“Wait.” Finally, Clint can think of something to say. “Will you be back in time? You know Stark will pout if you miss his biggest chance ever to be the centre of attention.”

Phil snorts down the phone. “Please. As if he needs an excuse. And no, I probably won’t be at the wedding.” 

Clint’s confused by the wave of disappointment he gets at that. “That sucks, sir,” he says. “Who am I going to get drunk and sarcastic with now?”

Phil laughs. “Natasha? Barnes?” he suggests. “Just like you would if I were there.”

“Yeah, okay, point.” Clint finds himself grinning out at nothing. He lowers his voice. “Who am I going to fool around with, afterwards, then?”

He wonders if maybe he shouldn’t have said that, when Phil doesn’t answer straight away.

“I’m sure you’ll find someone willing,” Phil says dryly, as though there was no pause.

“I… guess,” Clint agrees. He shakes his head. Of course Phil wouldn’t expect them to be exclusive. That’s not how fuckbuddies works.

“Well, then,” Phil says crisply. “Have fun. I’ll see you when I get back.”

“Yeah, I’ll see you then,” Clint says. He tells himself to hang up, then has a sudden, weirdly worried feeling. “Phil?”

Phil’s voice gets louder as he obviously moves the phone back toward his ear. Clint wonders why he used his personal cell rather than his Bluetooth. “Yes?”

“Take care, yeah?” Clint says quickly.

“I’ll see you soon,” Phil promises and ends the call.

***

There is an actual fucking red carpet leading into the Central Park Boathouse when they arrive for the wedding reception on Saturday. Both sides are lined with paparazzi, cameras flashing every time a guest walks past.

Clint doesn’t think that was planned – he can’t imagine Pepper standing for it, to be honest – but it’s a good way to keep all the journalists in one place and stop them trying to break into the venue.

As a member of the Avengers, he sometimes has to have his photo taken. It’s never been his favourite thing. He takes one look at all the cameras flashing at Thor and Jane (who, okay, always look adorable and stupidly photogenic) and decides that this is not the route for him.

“Clint? Where are you going?” Steve asks, frowning. 

“Um.” Clint points up at the low glass roof. “That way?”

Bucky laughs and catches Steve’s wrist. “C’mon, Rogers, it’s time for our big moment.”

Steve straightens up immediately, shoulders going back and his frown smoothing out into a very familiar _oh god, okay, smile for the press_ expression. They all have one of those; Steve’s is the most likely to make everyone want to pat him on the head, though.

His fingers slide down to grab Bucky’s before they step onto the walkway. They’ve been doing this a lot lately. Steve thinks it’s important to raise visibility of two former soldiers in a committed relationship. Bucky seems happy as long as Steve’s happy.

“Thanks,” Clint says quietly in Bucky’s ear, turning away before he can be spotted too.

“Don’t take the roof, too obvious,” Bucky murmurs back.

He’s right.

There’s no way up onto the roof that won’t take Clint over the heads of the photographers and other guests. He settles for the next best thing and slips around back, through the bushes and around the lake to a sliding side door.

Where he walks straight into Sitwell.

“Agent Barton,” Sitwell says, raising one eyebrow at him, clearly amused.

“Agent Sitwell,” Clint agrees, nodding and trying to slip past him while looking like this is a perfectly reasonable door for him to be entering through. Sitwell and Phil are really close and, if Sitwell thinks Clint’s being weird, he will definitely tell Phil.

“No date?” Sitwell calls after him.

Clint pauses. “Huh?” he asks, confused.

Sitwell just shakes his head, looking bland. “Just curious,” he says, turning his attention back to watching the door.

“Okay,” Clint says slowly and keeps walking, neatly joining up with Darcy, Jane and Thor at the drinks table. 

“Hi,” Darcy says, looking him over then glancing over his shoulder. “Going stag tonight?”

What is it with people worrying about Clint’s social life, all of a sudden? “Don’t I always?” he asks. So does she, mostly, so they spend a lot of Avengers (and Friends) events hanging out with each other.

“Hmm,” she says, “but I heard a rumour that was all changing.” She sighs and reaches up to tug on Clint’s hair.

Clint slaps her down because he spent time making his hair look this good; he doesn’t need her fucking it up. “Everyone’s gone insane,” he tells her seriously and accepts the champagne that Thor offers him.

***

There are way more speeches at this wedding than Clint was expecting. Rhodes and Tony and Pepper all make one, which is fine, he was expecting that, and they’re funny and sweet and everything wedding speeches should be.

But then various people from Stark Enterprises start standing up to say _their_ piece and they’re bad enough that Clint wishes he’d let Darcy talk him into the vodka shots she was doing with Natasha.

Halfway through some endless, self-aggrandising bullshit from some asshole who was apparently Company Treasurer under Howard Stark, Clint’s cell buzzes.

It’s from Bucky: _kmn_

All the Avengers (and Friends) have been split across several tables, almost like someone was worried about what they might get up if they were all sat together, so Clint has to look across the tops of several frilly, lacy hats and lopsided wigs to raise his eyebrows at Bucky. Bucky might be down with text speak, but Clint’s getting old, okay?

Bucky sighs exaggeratedly and glances at Steve before texting Clint again: _kill me now_

Clint thinks it’s cute how Bucky doesn’t want Steve to catch him texting in the middle of the speeches. Clint is _never_ telling either of them that.

 _U take the guy on right, I’ll take left?_ he texts back, grinning when Bucky laughs and has to turn it into a cough when Steve turns to look at him. 

Clint’s half way through typing _whipped!_ when there’s a touch on his shoulder and he turns to find Maria Hill leaning over the back of his chair.

“We have a situation,” she breathes, quiet enough that no one around them stirs. “Come with me.”

Clint gets up automatically, catching sight of Natasha already waiting by the backdoors. Bucky and Steve both try to flag him down and, out of the corner of his eye, he sees Bruce frown at him, but if Hill isn’t collecting any of them, it must just be a SHIELD thing, so he shakes his head quickly, flashing a general smile.

“What’s going on?” Natasha asks softly, as soon as the doors close behind the three of them. There are more of their people in the hallway now, guns visible in their holsters.

Hill doesn’t stop walking. “We’ve been following intelligence for a few months that The Ten Rings were planning something big for Stark’s wedding. Coulson apprehended two operatives this morning, but we think there are still four heading this way.”

“Coulson?” Clint asks at the same time as Natasha asks, “Does Stark know?”

“Coulson’s lead,” Hill says quickly. She holds the front door open then stops, closing it again before turning back to them. “Stark doesn’t know. If possible, I want to take care of this with just the two of you and our agents. With the number of reporters around, it’ll be hard to keep it low key if all the Avengers suddenly up and leave the reception – including the groom.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Clint agrees easily. He enjoys being on a team more than he thought he would, but working with Natasha – and Phil – is his bread and butter. “Where d’you want us?”

She clicks her fingers and one guy steps forward out of the shadows, handing Clint his bow and a full quiver. “I want you on the roof. I’ve got agents at every point of entry, but I want eyes on high. Romanoff, with me.” She stops them before they can move, pressing a tiny earpiece on each of them.

Clint isn’t thrilled with the idea of being left behind while Hill takes Natasha god knows where, but he nods and heads outside, looking for the quickest and most discreet route up.

It doesn’t take long. There are a lot of pillars around the boathouse. 

The roof is actually several roofs, all sloping in different directions, and painted bright green, which makes it hard for him to stay hidden in his dark suit.

He strips his jacket off and pulls off his tie. Then he lies down on his belly, readies his bow and waits.

It’s a mild day and Clint ends up rolling his sleeves up. SHIELD remembered his bow and arrows but no one thought to pack his gloves or arm guards, so he’ll need to pull his sleeves down again, if anyone shows up to be shot. It’s not looking likely at the moment, though.

He can see cyclists and joggers and parents with strollers, couples rowing on the lake, a guy yelling into his cell phone and – 

There’s a dark shadow at the very edge of the path, half hidden in the shrubbery.

“Guys,” Clint breathes, rolling down onto his stomach and readying an arrow. “Movement at my ten o’clock.”

“Where the fuck is your ten o’clock?” Sitwell grouses, somewhere down on the ground, but Clint’s not worried; Sitwell’s Clint’s second favourite handler. “Wait, I can see him.”

“Want me to take him down?” Clint asks.

“No,” Sitwell snaps. “Naeem, can you get visual? Last thing we want is Hawkeye putting an arrow in some paparazzo.”

“Is that really the _last_ thing we want?” Naeem asks, just before Clint sees her stride out of the building, stable on six-inch heels. She’s wearing a wedding outfit and she makes sure to meander along, stopping to lean against the bridge and take in the view. She’s easily approachable, if their lurking guy is a reporter looking for a scoop, but he doesn’t come any closer.

In fact, yeah, he’s slipping further back into the shadows, ducking down when Naeem turns slowly, letting her eyes drift along the plant life.

She pulls her cell phone out of her bag and pretends to be making a call. “Sir,” she says softly, “I can see a gun. I recommend Hawkeye take the shot.”

Clint lines up his arrow. “Sitwell.”

Sitwell groans. “They promised me champagne, you know, if I took this gig today. Take the shot.”

Clint takes the shot. 

The shadowy guy crumples, falling so just his hand and arm land on the path. Naeem moves smoothly, gathering him up disappearing out of sight with his body.

After a second she says, breathless, “C4 in his pockets and enough small arms to make a decent dent in the guest list. Looks like they’re here.”

“Yeah,” Clint starts, but he’s interrupted by someone else cutting across the line. 

“They’re here,” Hill informs them. “Widow and I just took down two at the north end of the park.”

“So we’re looking for one more,” Sitwell confirms. “Anyone heard from Coulson?”

“Nothing,” Hill says. She sounds tense, not worried but getting there, and Clint pretends like his stomach doesn’t suddenly cramp up. “Last I heard, he was heading your way.”

Clint hasn’t ever stopped scanning the area but now he starts looking even harder, trying to stretch beyond the limits of his eyesight, in case Phil suddenly appears.

He’s been on too many missions to worry about his friends while they’re all in the field, but anyone dropping out of radio contact is concerning. When it’s Phil – who once commandeered a child’s toy radio so as not to miss a check in – it’s fucking terrifying.

“Talking about me?” Phil’s voice suddenly asks in Clint’s ear. Clint is so anxious to hear from him that he thinks for a second he’s imagining it.

“Coulson, where are you?” Hill snaps.

“Near the Hans Christian Andersen statue.” Phil’s voice is too level. It makes Clint tense up, automatically expecting a go order. “Agent Dawson’s down. Backup would be good.”

“I’ll go,” Clint says, rolling up into a crouch and getting ready to jump down from the roof. “Sitwell?”

“Go,” Sitwell agrees.

Clint jumps. He lands harder than he meant to, not used to SHIELD-ing in dress shoes, and skids, teetering for a second and nearly ending up in the water.

Then he starts to run. He cuts across East Drive, waving half an apology to a car that has to slam on its brakes, and pounds down the road to the Hans Christian Andersen statue.

There’s no immediate sign of Phil, but then Clint hears a branch snap and someone swear so he swerves in that direction instead. 

There’s a body lying in the middle of the path, blood across his face and staining through his dark suit. The pistol that’s fallen from his hand and the wire just visible behind his ear mark him out as SHIELD.

Clint runs faster.

Phil’s grappling with a guy on the edge of Conservatory Water, and it looks like he’s losing.

The guy’s on top, something shiny and silver clutched in one hand and the other hand clenched in Phil’s hair.

“Hey,” Clint yells, but it doesn’t distract the guy like he hoped it would. As Clint watches, he lifts Phil’s head and slams it back against the concrete sidewalk.

Phil doesn’t go limp, thank god, but a sharp noise of pain is jerked out of him and that’s enough for Clint.

Clint fists an arrow, wishing he’d brought his knife, and launches himself into the fight.

***

It doesn’t take them long, now it’s two against one. Even with Phil injured and Clint restricted by this stupid damn monkey suit, they’ve always been an awesome team.

In seven minutes, the last Ten Rings asshole is knocked out on the ground, SHIELD has cleared the area and Clint’s sitting with Phil on the back step of an ambulance.

“I’m fine,” Phil says tetchily, pushing the EMT’s hand away. She’s trying to shine a flashlight in his eye and Clint thinks that the fact that he’s flinching is a sign that he’s _not_ fine.

“Headache?” the EMT asks, ignoring him. Phil looks hilariously disgruntled at that; people don’t usually ignore him.

“Slight headache,” Phil allows. “But no nausea, blurred vision, or memory loss. I do not have a concussion.”

“Maybe not.” The EMT looks conspiratorially at Clint. “I’ll need someone to keep an eye on him for the next forty-eight hours. That won’t be a problem, will it?”

“Nope.” Clint smiles at her brightly. “I swear I’ll be his shadow, ma’am.”

Phil groans. “I’ve changed my mind,” he says flatly, “I definitely have a concussion. I’m probably bleeding on the brain. Take me to the hospital.”

Clint laughs at him and squeezes his shoulder, hoping that Phil knows that Clint’s only teasing him because he’s so damn glad that Phil’s okay.

***

Phil begs off going to the wedding after the medics clear them. Clint’s cool with not going back in, but Natasha says that she will. Mostly, Clint suspects, to stop everyone coming after them once they realise they’re gone.

“You didn’t tell me it was this kind of mission,” Clint says once they’re half way back to Phil’s apartment.

They’re getting a ride in a SHIELD car, which almost never happens to Clint, so apparently they’ve done good. Although who would have thought that Fury would be _pleased_ that Tony didn’t get assassinated. Go figure.

Phil’s leaning his head back against the plush leather seats. He looks like he wants to close his eyes but isn’t letting himself, because he doesn’t want the driver to see him looking weak.

At least Clint hopes it’s the driver he’s hiding his headache from, not Clint.

“I hardly ever tell you about missions you’re not part of,” Phil says. His eyes are tight at the corners. Clint wants to reach over and smooth out the skin with his thumb, which is a seriously weird thing to want, so he sits on his hands instead.

“Yeah, point,” Clint agrees, voice coming out kind of quiet. 

Phil doesn’t say anything else and Clint feels suddenly awkward. He can’t think of a way to tease Phil into smiling that doesn’t involve touching him, and touching him seems like it’d be a really bad idea right now.

“You don’t have to come up,” Phil says, when the car stops outside his building. “I’m honestly fine.”

“Right.” Clint snorts and climbs out of the car. “If I go home, everyone’ll just yell at me for leaving you. You really want to subject me to that, sir?”

Phil still doesn’t smile, but he holds the door for Clint rather than slamming it in his face, so Clint doesn’t feel totally unwanted.

In the apartment, Phil spends a couple minutes futzing around, offering Clint a drink and telling him to sit on the couch, like Clint is a guest, not the guy who spent a long, dirty weekend here not even a seven days ago.

Clint’s about to object when Phil seems to just kind of… give up. 

“I do have a headache,” he says, even though it would usually take a bullet in his stomach to get him to admit to being in pain. “I’m going to lie down.”

“Sure. Sir.” Clint stumbles back up to his feet. He still feels weird. “Want me to get you anything?” 

Phil shakes his head. “Entertain yourself,” he says, fiddling with the buttons of his jacket, but then ending up pulling it tighter around himself, rather than taking it off. “Or go home.”

Clint makes himself smile at Phil. “I’ll be here if you need me,” he says, which earns him like, half a smile, before Phil disappears into the bedroom.

***

Clint’s been asleep long enough that his brain feels kind of fuzzy, when he wakes up on the couch to find Phil standing in the kitchen, staring blankly into the sink.

“Hey,” Clint says. His voice comes out too soft and then too loud after he clears his throat.

Phil starts even though he definitely must have known Clint was there. “I was going to make coffee,” he says. “Then I realised it was three a.m. and I don’t want coffee.”

Clint gets up and walks over and leans against the counter next to him, kicking Phil’s ankle lightly with his toes. He doesn’t know what to say. Everyone has their own post-mission routines, maybe he shouldn’t be here, maybe he’s getting in the way of Phil’s.

“You want me gone?” he asks. He’ll do the walk of shame back to the Avengers Tower in the middle of the night for Phil. He doesn’t want to but he will. That probably means something, but he’s too tired and habitually repressed to think about it.

Phil shakes his head. “I don’t think so.” He shivers, rubbing at his bare arms. He looks so _human_ tonight; it’s scary. He didn’t even look this real and easily hurt while he was recovering from Loki’s staff.

Clint puts a hand in the centre of Phil’s back. It’s not a hug, nothing weird, just an anchor in case that’s what Phil needs.

“You okay?” he asks. He’s kind of nervous about what the answer might be, because Phil is so clearly _not_ okay.

Phil’s quiet so long that Clint thinks he’s not going to answer. Phil doesn’t usually leave him hanging, because he understands how bad Clint is at this sort of shit. 

“You saw the body?” he asks. “Agent Dawson?”

“Yeah.” Clint saw the dead agent, but he didn’t recognise him.

“It was his first day in the field. It’s – ” Phil shakes his head. “I hate losing agents.”

“Yeah.” Clint rubs his eyes; he’s not awake enough for this, but he wants to help. “I’m really sorry about your guy,” he says eventually, useless but genuine.

Phil makes a choked sound. “Stop being nice to me,” he says. He’s maybe trying to joke, but it comes out a little desperately. He brings up a hand and squeezes the bridge of his nose, hard. “I think I’ll go back to bed. My head’s pounding. You don’t have to keep sleeping on the sofa.”

Clint hesitates. “I can’t decide if you’re kicking me out or telling me I can bunk in with you.”

Phil leans heavily into Clint’s side. “Bunk in with me,” he says. There’s no question mark, but it sounds like a request rather than an order.

“Yeah,” Clint says. _That’s_ something he knows how to do.

***

It’s dark in Phil’s bedroom and Clint can’t stop running his fingers through Phil’s hair. He feels like he should be embarrassed about that, but there’s a swollen bump at the back of Phil’s head, strands of hair stuck under the bandage they taped over it.

Phil’s back is to Clint but he hasn’t told Clint to stop touching him. Maybe it’s comforting to him; Clint hopes it is, since it’s definitely comforting to Clint.

“I’m sorry I’m not up for sex tonight,” Phil says, out of the blue after Clint’s convinced himself that Phil’s probably asleep. 

Clint frowns through the dark. “Yeah, no, how dare you not want to fuck me when you have a head injury,” he says, letting himself sound just a little snarky because fucking _what_? Is that all Phil thinks he’s here for?

Phil doesn’t answer. After a minute, he rolls over, mouth unerringly finding Clint’s. He tastes like stale toothpaste and pain, which isn’t something that anyone should be able to taste of, but Clint has learned that sometimes people do.

“Thought you didn’t want sex,” Clint says, putting his hand on Phil’s shoulder and pushing him back far enough to talk. 

“I don’t,” Phil agrees and kisses him again.

Okay, well, so Clint is officially confused. He’s also being kissed by the hottest guy he knows, so he just goes with it, letting his hands drift back up to Phil’s hair to cup his skull carefully.

True to his word, Phil doesn’t try to take the kissing any further and they fall into a rhythm that’s almost soothing. It _would_ be soothing if it weren’t for the barely-there tremor running down Phil’s spine.

“Shh,” Clint hums softly, rubbing his thumb behind Phil’s ear.

“I’m fine.” Phil’s voice is steady, but Clint doesn’t believe him.

***

Clint wakes up before Phil the next morning. Phil’s on his back, the pain and worry lines he was wearing yesterday smoothed away. He didn’t shave last night, so his stubble is coming through as a grey and brown mosaic, leaving his cheekbones looking strangely vulnerable.

Clint’s still half-asleep, so he has no idea what he’s supposed to do with this sudden punch-in-the-gut feeling. 

Phil’s eyelashes flicker and Clint wants to watch. He just wants to lie right here and watch all day, maybe all year. Maybe even always, but he can’t… No, shit, he cannot start thinking like that.

 _Fuck_ , he thinks and sits up quickly.

Phil rolls over, making a wordless question, one of his hands landing in the space where Clint was lying a second ago.

Clint almost wonders if that was deliberate, if Phil was looking for him in his sleep, but he knows from past experience that he can drive himself fucking _crazy_ obsessing over shit like that, so he doesn’t dwell on it.

Clint is already an idiot who suddenly has stupid feelings for the friend he’s buddy-fucking; he’s not going to make this any worse by pretending Phil feels the same.

“Okay?” Phil asks sleepily. He licks his lips and Clint’s eyes snap to his tongue like they’re magnetised. 

“Good, yeah,” Clint says hoarsely. “But I should, like. I should go.” He backpedals so fast that he almost falls off the bed, catching himself with one hand on the bedside table at the last second and landing on his feet in the worst dismount ever. 

“Sure?” Phil sits up and frowns sleepily at Clint. 

Clint hesitates. Phil doesn’t know that anything’s changed for Clint and Clint could just crawl back into bed, push him down and wear him out so he can get some more sleep.

But that’s not… it’s not what they agreed. Clint’s broken their agreement with his stupid feelings, and it’d be an asshole move to carry on when he’d be getting more from it than Phil would know.

“Your head’s okay, right?” Clint asks, pulling his dress shirt on and letting his fingers fly over the buttons without thinking about it.

“Fine.” Now Phil looks more awake. Specifically, awake and _assessing_ , which is never good, because he can read Clint like a SHIELD procedural guide. “Want some breakfast before you go?”

“No. No, I should – ” Clint nods toward where the front door would be, if they weren’t in the bedroom. “I missed the reception so Stark’ll really pout if I’m not there for his post-wedding breakfast thing.” 

“Right.” Phil manages a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes and gets out of bed. “Of course.”

“You can come, too?” Clint offers, even though that absolutely isn’t what he needs to happen, right now. 

Phil shakes his head. He pushes a hand through his hair and grimaces when it sticks. Clint works really hard at not thinking about how many times he combed that same piece of hair with his fingers, last night.

“I have to go into the office and hand in my report,” he says. “Fury only gave me a pass yesterday because I had an actual head wound.”

Clint knows he’s trying to make Clint smile, so he dutifully smiles.

“Thanks for staying with me,” Phil says, walking him to the door.

“Any time, sir,” Clint says and hates himself for how much he means it.

***

“How’s Phil?” Pepper asks, pretty much as soon as Clint steps off the elevator back at the Tower.

She’s still got last night’s eye makeup on, her new wedding band glinting on her finger, and she looks this weird mix of really happy and really worried.

“He’s fine.” Clint thinks about adding _thanks for asking_ , then realises that would be weird. Phil isn’t his relative or his spouse or his… he’s not anything like that to Clint. “Told me to tell you sorry for missing the wedding.”

Pepper rolls her eyes, waving that away. “He saved our lives, you all did, I think I can forgive him.”

Then she shocks the hell out of Clint by leaning in and kissing his cheek. “Thank you,” she says, sincerely. “And thank you for not involving Tony. I don’t think I could have taken that, not on our wedding day.”

Clint shrugs, feeling so fucking awkward. “That’s, you know, our job,” he says, and totally deserves the way someone bursts out laughing behind him.

“’Just doin’ my job, ma’am’,” Bucky drawls and slings his arm around Clint’s shoulder, drawing him away from Pepper. “Come on, Nat wants you.”

“Breakfast in twenty minutes,” Pepper calls after them. “Tony’s been ordering the kitchen staff around for hours; don’t be late.”

“Never late for food,” Bucky promises her and steers Clint out of the room. The only reason that Clint puts up with it is because he’s still feeling all sorts of unsettled and he might as well go where Bucky wants him, since he doesn’t know where to put himself.

“Coulson really okay?” Bucky asks, as soon as they’re in the elevator, heading for Natasha’s floor. “You look like someone hit you in the face with a baseball bat.”

Clint shakes his head. “He’s fine,” he says. “What does Natasha want me for?”

Bucky shrugs. “I lied about that. But you looked like you wanted to escape Pepper being nice to you, and Nat always worries about you, so I figured it was a safe bet.”

“Thanks,” Clint says, meaning it. He shrugs. “Just been kind of a weird day.”

“And it’s only ten in the morning.” Bucky claps him on the shoulder. It’s probably supposed to be reassuring, but he uses his metal hand, so it winds up just being painful.

The elevator dings, when they reach Natasha’s floor and Bucky shoves Clint out of it. “You have fun, I’m gonna drag Steve back to bed.” He winks and hits the button for his and Steve’s floor.

“You said you wouldn’t be late,” Clint reminds him.

Bucky’s grin is sharp. “You got no idea how much I can get done in ten minutes.”

Shaking his head and, not sure what else to do, Clint drifts toward Natasha’s bedroom.

She’s doing something with her hair when he gets there, sitting in front of her mirror and twisting it into curls.

“Hi there,” she says, when he doesn’t say anything first. She watches him in the mirror for a minute then lifts her head and looks at him directly. “You look terrible. Want to talk about it?”

“Fuck, no,” Clint says and sits down on the bed behind her. “Can I do your hair?”

“Don’t make it fluffy,” she warns and hands him a brush.

***

After they’ve had breakfast – it’s not really a breakfast, there are five fucking courses – the Stark/Potts wedding extravaganza is finally over.

Tony and Pepper hop in their jet and disappear off on their honeymoon and Clint crawls into bed, draping his pillow over the back of his head and planning to stay there for the rest of the month, at least.

He makes it four hours, then JARVIS says, “I’m terribly sorry to disturb you, sir, but Agent Coulson is requesting admittance.”

“Tell him I’ve died,” Clint begs. He’s too tired to risk seeing if the new Phil-related feelings from this morning have stuck around.

“I do not think that would deter him,” JARVIS says. “Shall I let him in?”

“Ugh, fine,” Clint says and sits up, scrubbing his face with his hands before the door opens and Phil comes in.

He’s dressed down in a Henley and jeans, which means that he went home to get changed in between checking in with Fury and coming here.

Clint has no idea if that means anything. Yesterday, he wouldn’t even have thought about it.

“Stark and Pepper get off okay?” Phil asks, coming in and sitting down on the armchair by Clint’s bed, like this is any other visit. Which it is, to him.

“Yep.” Clint swings his legs out of bed and plants them on the arm of Phil’s seat. He’s normally obnoxious, and he’s aiming for normal, right now.

Phil frowns down at Clint’s foot. Clint finds his toes curling in protectively.

“Are _you_ okay?” Phil asks, tapping his thumb against Clint’s jagged big toenail.

“ _Sure_ ,” Clint says. He doesn’t even need Phil’s suddenly narrowing eyes to know he oversold that. He winces.

“Okay,” Phil says. “Something happened last night, didn’t it? Did I say something wrong?” 

“I, um, no.” Clint tries. Phil starts to say something else so Clint rushes on. “Seriously, nothing happened, you didn’t do or say anything. I’m just being...” He stops, takes a deep breath. “Okay, so, I think we should maybe stop.”

“Stop?” Phil prompts.

“Fucking around,” Clint says quickly. “It was fun, the sex was awesome, but maybe it was a dumb idea to get involved?”

Phil doesn’t look like his heart’s just been crushed or anything – Clint doesn’t _want_ him to look like that, honestly he doesn’t – but he does look kind of surprised, maybe a little hurt, but only for a second before he packs all that away.

“If that’s what you want,” he says, nodding slowly. “If that’s what you want, then that’s fine. Of course.”

The fact that he just repeated himself means that it’s not fine, but Clint swallows down his instinct to take it back. This is better, this is how it should be; getting involved really was dumb. It’s not like Clint doesn’t have a long and distinguished track record of falling head over ass in love with the wrong people. He should have seen this coming a mile off.

“It seems like it’d be for the best,” he says (lies) and smiles thinly at Phil. “I mean, I know my cock is awesome but you won’t pine for it too long, will you? Sir?”

Phil rolls his eyes hard. “I’ll try to cope, Barton,” he says shortly. He stands up, slapping his palm down on the arch of Clint’s foot as he does so. “I’ll see you.”

 _You don’t have to go_ , Clint wants to say, but it’s obvious that Phil does. Phil wants him for sex, he doesn’t want to _date_ him, so there’s no reason for him to waste his free time on Clint, if they’re aren’t going to be orgasms involved.

He’ll probably find someone else for orgasms. 

As long as it’s no one Clint knows, he might even manage to be happy for them.

Eventually.

***

The Tower’s quiet with Tony off on his honeymoon and, for some reason, the supervillain world is quiet too.

Normally, Clint would be delighted by that, but right now, it’s a problem. It leaves him with a lot of time to miss having regular sex and no excuse at all to see Phil.

“Maybe we could bribe someone to attack,” he muses thoughtfully, right in the middle of the world’s longest and most boring afternoon.

Steve makes a disapproving coughing noise from over by the windowsill.

“Not to _hurt_ anyone,” Clint clarifies. He’s lying on his back on the carpet so he can’t see Steve, but he can still imagine his expression. “Just a little attack. And just a regular villain, not even a super one.”

“Barton, you’re rambling,” Bucky tells him. He’s sitting on the carpet too, about half way between Steve and Clint and Clint’s pretty sure Steve’s drawing him, but Bucky hasn’t noticed yet.

“Yeah? Well, I’m bored.” That’s not exactly true. Clint’s actually damn good at being bored. What he actually is right now is restless, and he knows it’s making him a pain to be around; he just can’t seem to stop it.

“Did you not say that you had a lover?” Thor asks from where he and Jane are canoodling at the kitchen table. 

Okay, so maybe they’re not _canoodling_ , maybe they’re just sharing a pot of tea and having a chat, but watching other people be couple-y is not helping Clint’s mood.

“Yeah, what happened to that?” Bucky chimes in. 

“I said I _didn’t_ ,” Clint reminds them and boy is he glad that Natasha and Bruce are off meditating right now. He doesn’t need her to hear this. “I said it was just fucking, and now it’s over, so it’s not anything anymore, okay?”

Shit. He maybe said that kind of loud. Even Jane’s looking at him now, eyes all wide and sad with what looks a lot like sympathy.

It’s Steve who clears his throat. “Clint, are you – ”

“Hey, can you hear my cell ringing?” Clint asks, jumping to his feet. “Better get that, might be important.” 

He doesn’t look back, just marches out the room and makes sure to wait until he’s way out of hearing distance before punching his fist into the wall and swearing himself a blue streak.

***

After that, Clint decides that the safest place for him is down on the range. He needs to get a handle on this and the best way he’s ever found to settle himself is to get lost in the catch and release of an arrow leaving his bow.

The other benefit of being on the range is that most people won’t bother him here. Unless they happen to be an asshole ex-Soviet assassin, anyway. Since there are now two of those living in the Tower, Clint’s chances of a peaceful afternoon aren’t as high as they used to be.

“Pretty sure your aim’s a quarter-inch off, Barton,” Bucky says, totally ignoring the red warning light to walk straight in and up to Clint.

“Fuck you, my aim’s perfect,” Clint says automatically. Then he squints down his sights anyway, just to check. It _is_ perfect; he’s not _that_ upset.

“Yeah, but I made you look.” Bucky turns and points his right arm down the range, smiling in satisfaction when a miniature barrel rises up out of the metal plating in his forearm and fires, the tiny silver bullet piercing straight down the centre of Clint’s arrow.

Clint hates it when he does shit like that.

“Woo, well done, I’m so impressed,” Clint says flatly. “You want something?”

Bucky shrugs. “Seemed like you maybe needed to talk?” he asks. 

Clint stares at him in horror. “No,” he says slowly, “no, I really don’t.”

He expects Bucky to look relieved, but he doesn’t. “C’mon, man,” he wheedles. “I promise I won’t even make you admit that it was Coulson you were fucking.”

Clint’s head snaps up so hard that something jars at the base of his neck. “I… what?” he flounders.

“Hey.” Bucky holds up his hand. “Don’t freak out. I said you _don’t_ have to admit that.” He sits down on Clint’s bench so the only way Clint can keep shooting is to set up on another lane or just shoot through him. One of those sounds way more tempting than the other.

“It’s not a big deal,” Clint lies. “I just thought I should get out before… before it got serious, or whatever.”

Bucky looks at him for a second then leans forward and smacks Clint on the arm. “Idiot,” he says. 

“Fuck you,” Clint says automatically.

“You know what I did when I realised I was in love with Steve?” Bucky asks, ignoring him.

Clint raises both eyebrows at him. “Dip him into a sweeping Hollywood kiss while the band played and wind machines lightly ruffled your hair?”

Bucky doesn’t look impressed. “No. Asshole. I enlisted in the fucking army, because I was freaking out that damn badly.” 

“Seriously?” Clint’s not convinced. Steve and Bucky went through World War Two, the Cold War, seventy years apart and a lot of people fiddling around with their bodies, but they’re still the most stable couple Clint knows.

“Seriously.” Bucky shrugs. “Who wants to risk ruining everything with their best friend, right? Especially when they might not feel the same about you.”

Well, ouch, this is hitting way too close to home. Ignoring all the other reasons why Clint hates the Red Room, he kind of wants to punch them all in mouth for making their operatives so damn perceptive.

“Do you have a point?” Clint asks.

“Nah, just saying.” Bucky laughs softly. “Steve’s way braver than me, so he fixed it for us. And, okay, I’m not saying that Coulson isn’t brave too, but sitting around waiting sucks, so why don’t you take the leap instead?” 

“And just what?” Clint spreads his hands. “Walk up to Coulson and say it? I can’t do that.”

“Say what?” a fresh voice asks from the doorway on their left and Clint feels his spine go ramrod stiff with shock.

He looksup at Bucky, more betrayed than he’s felt in a long time.

“Swear to god, I didn’t know he was there,” Bucky promises. He twists sideways and waves to Coulson. “Hey, there, sir. I was just leaving.”

“Don’t go,” Clint hisses under his breath, but Bucky ignores him. 

“Be brave,” he whispers back. “I’ll buy you a beer, if it all goes to shit.”

“Gee, thanks, asshole,” Clint yells after him, but he’s already gone. He makes himself look at Phil, even though what he wants to do is fiddle with his bow until Phil gets the hint and goes away. “Sir.”

“Hi.” Phil smiles this tiny smile that Clint hasn’t seen much of lately. It’s strangely sweet and out of place. “I…” He laughs. “I have no reason to be here; I just didn’t feel like sitting alone in my office, any longer.”

Clint refuses to feel flattered, _refuses_.

“Yeah,” he says and even though he tries to smirk, it definitely comes out as a proper smile. “It is kind of quiet, huh?”

“Not that I’m complaining,” Phil says quickly. “But, yes. Would it be wrong to wish for just a _small_ catastrophe?”

Clint laughs, shifting his bow over so there’s space for Phil to sit down. “Nope. I was wishing for that earlier, too. Steve judged me.”

Phil sits down in the space and nods his thanks, like Clint is some guy making room on the subway, or something. It makes Clint want to do something dramatic to get his attention back.

“Do you suppose that things have been this quiet all month, but we didn’t notice because we were distracted by Stark’s wedding and all the sex we were having?” Phil asks blandly.

Clint chokes on air. That’s the sort of thing that _he_ usually says, not Phil.

“I’m sorry.” Phil raises an eyebrow at him. “Are we pretending that it didn’t happen?”

Clint flails out with one hand. “No, of course not. We’re just...” He looks hard at Phil. “Are you pissed at me?”

“That would be completely unfair of me,” Phil says, which is not even slightly an answer.

“Phil,” Clint complains, suddenly wanting to look Phil in the eye, except that Phil’s avoiding his gaze. 

Phil’s lips turn up into a not-smile and he shrugs. “I’m not mad at you,” he says. “I’m… worried? Embarrassed? It’s up to you to tell me which one I should stick with.”

“Huh?” Clint frowns. This isn’t going where he was expecting it to go.

Finally, Phil shifts around and looks at him. He picks up Clint’s bow and runs a finger along the string. Clint lets him, even though it makes his skin itch. He knows Phil wouldn’t break his stuff.

“We were fine until the night after Stark’s wedding. Then, the next day, you told me we should stop. So I assume I said something to you that night that made you uncomfortable.” He sounds so stilted. It’s like having a relationship conversation with JARVIS.

Clint breathes out slowly. “Wouldn’t you know if you said something to me?”

That earns him a slightly better smile. “I may have lied when I said I wasn’t experiencing gaps in my memory.” He holds up a hand before Clint can decide whether to worry about that. “I’m fine now. But if I embarrassed you or told you anything that you didn’t want to hear, then I’m very sorry.”

Okay, now Clint’s curious. “Like what?” he asks, leaning forward. “Do you have some secret kink I don’t know about?” He waggles his eyebrows to see if he can make Phil laugh. 

“I really didn’t say anything?” Phil asks, obviously still able to read Clint way too well. His expression shutters and he starts to stand. “In that case, let’s just forget this conversation happened.” 

“Hang on, wait.” Clint grabs Phil’s wrist and holds him in place. He can smell something that might be hope, just out of reach, and he doesn’t want to let it go. “What did you think you’d told me?”

“I…” Phil takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders. Clint doesn’t doubt for a second that he’s going to be honest, because that’s the sort of guy Phil is. “I’d been thinking about how much I enjoyed our weekend together and that I’d like it, if you were interested in less of a fuck-buddy relationship and more of a…”

“More of a what?” Clint prompts, when Phil breaks off, looking pained.

“More of a _relationship_ relationship,” Phil finishes. He lifts his chin and waits.

“Oh my god,” Clint breathes, unable to hold back a startled laugh. “Fuck. Do you know why I called things quits with you?” It comes out in a rush because, unlike Phil, he’s really bad at even pretending to know how to talk about shit like this.

“No?” Phil asks, looking a mix between cautious and the same sort of hopeful that Clint’s feeling.

Clint looks down, looks back up. He makes a helpless face at Phil. “I figured out I was falling for you and wanted to stop before I fucked everything up between us.”

There’s a startled pause. Then Phil very carefully sets down Clint’s bow and grabs his hand instead.

“Imagine what we could achieve, if we ever actually spoke to each other,” he says, making Clint laugh and drop his head onto Phil’s shoulder. 

“Fuck,” Clint says. “Phil.”

Phil keeps hold of Clint’s hand but wraps his other arm around Clint’s shoulders. “‘Falling’ for me, huh?”

“Fell,” Clint says quickly, breathing in Phil’s smell, which is familiar, has been familiar for years. “I, you know.”

“I do know.” Phil makes a choked sound that’s probably a laugh. “Let’s stop talking before we strain something?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Clint agrees fervently. He leans back into the cradle of Phil’s arm and he’s not sure if he kisses Phil or Phil kisses him, but they definitely end up mouth to mouth.

Tony almost certainly has cameras installed on the range, but Clint doesn’t care. Phil pushes him backwards so his back’s flat against the bench, one knee up between Clint’s legs, and Clint clutches at his shirt, his hair, his shoulders, anything, because he thought he’d lost this.

Then Phil stops kissing him.

“Hang on, wait,” Phil says, “this isn’t how it should go.”

Clint blinks up at him, trying to make the mental switch between sex and maybe-no-sex. “Changed your mind, sir?” he asks. He tries to sound like he’s joking, but he knows it comes out worried. Dammit.

“No,” Phil says as though he thinks Clint’s an idiot. Clint has heard that tone many times before, but he’s never been happier to hear it than he is now. “But we rushed into sex last time. This time, I want to take you out first.”

Clint laughs, because that has to be a joke. Phil just raises both eyebrows at him. “You… want to take me out on a date before you’ll fuck me again?”

“Exactly.” Phil leans in, kisses him once more – _very_ thoroughly – before sliding back down to the ground. He grabs Clint’s hand and braces him upright, as well. “So, dinner? Tonight?”

“Dinner,” Clint agrees slowly. He doesn’t let Phil release his hand. “But _then_ sex, right?”

“I don’t know.” Phil tips his head, mock thoughtfully. “Don’t you think we’ve had enough sex to be getting on with?”

“ _No_ ,” Clint splutters, knowing he’s being played yet still rising to it. He uses their joined hands to tug Phil back in, and licks into his mouth, trying to make it as sexy as he knows how. 

“Okay.” Phil is blinking kind of slow when they break apart, which is gratifying. “Okay, I’m convinced. I still want to take you to dinner first, though.”

“Yeah, fine,” Clint says, trying not to sound pleased that Phil wants to spend that much time on him. He squeezes Phil’s hand before letting go. “See you later.”

“You will,” Phil agrees, smiling at him. He lingers for a second then shakes his head, walking swiftly out of the room.

Clint waits ten seconds to make sure that Phil’s really gone, then flings both arms up into the air in victory. “And JARVIS,” he says to the empty room, “if Stark wants to watch that tape when he gets back, tell him to knock himself out. _I_ have a date tonight.”

/end

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Kenny Loggins's _For The First Time_.
> 
> Also I'm now available on [tumblr](http://torakowalski.tumblr.com/). *waves*


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